


Up In the Valley, Down On the Mountain

by Amand_r



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Highlander Lyric Wheel challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:44:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos had let go of all of his boyhood dreams not because he had decided that they were worth nothing, but because he had been forced to forget them, as many children had in the ancient past, when confronted with the sword and early blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up In the Valley, Down On the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lyrics (thanks Shadowlight!) by Bebo Norman, titled "Where the Angels Sleep". Also, thanks to Prince, who told me exactly what it sounds like when doves cry. Because I had been wondering...
> 
> Longer than normal, I hope this makes up for my shorter ones in the past.

_For Mr. Beaver had warned them, "He'll be coming and going," he had said. "One day you'll see him and another you won't. He doesn't like being tied down--and of course he has other countries to attend to. It's quite all right. He'll often drop in. Only you mustn't press him. He's wild, you know. Not like a_ tame _lion."_

 

 **MAY:**

The best thing he could say about the place that Mac had rented for them was that it was big. After that, it all went downhill. Old, was the first thing that came to mind, but saying that was like inviting every cliched joke and snide comment he would ever get from the Highlander, so he kept his mouth shut. Stuffy, was another, and crowded with books and other various junk. That too was something he normally wouldn't have minded, seeing as how most of the places he inhabited tended to be at least one of the above.

So, with the thought that he would not be saying a word about any of their surroundings, Methos searched the dusty-as-hell library for a decent book he hadn't read in a while and wondered how the hell Mac had gotten him out here...

When he had opened his eyes two days ago, Duncan MacLeod had been standing over him like a nightmare harpy. That he hadn't sensed Duncan wasn't unusual; he was living with the man. Temporarily, until they finished fumigating his apartment. But to see Mac this close, this early, had been a shock. He had sat bolt upright, thoroughly knocking heads with the other Immortal.

After a little bit of squalling, and screaming about boundaries (mostly on his part), Duncan had given him the strangest look. It might have been a 'wise' look, except that Methos was usually on the other end of such non-verbal exchanges. Or so he had liked to tell himself. This time it had been different. He had felt an  
unmistakable wave of _something_ most strange about to happen, and it had.

"You need a vacation," Mac had said to him, sagely, picking the remnants of the spilled coffee mug from the floor.

It had been sublime. "That much is obvious," Mac had continued. "I should think that a summer in the countryside would do you wonders."

Methos had been so speechless at the intelligence of this child, of the tenacity with which MacLeod pursued the rental of a villa on the English Countryside, and the ease with which he had cajoled Methos right in the place where he had wanted him that there had been no option but to pack things up in satchels and trunks, and well, _go_.

Methos fingered an old copy of Beowulf and wondered idly what he was going to do with himself. Mac had stocked the larder to brimming with everything they would need, plus little bonuses for his companion: bacon, beer, various forms of junk food that he favored. There were bags of tortilla chips, synthetic puffs painted with florescent cheese, packages that vaunted the fabled corn and nut combination, and soft drinks like jeweled liquor in their oblong bottles.

Methos felt the pull away from these things. The first few days he rode out into the countryside with a horse he had rented from a local and jumped the rock barriers that still separated neighboring lands. He walked out in the orchard, away from Mac, away from anybody, hands in pockets, as the dew just started to coat the long blades of grass and leaves that trembled in the morning breeze.

For the first time in millennia, Methos realized as he felt the animal under his legs, or reached up with one hand to pluck the ripest apple from its tender stem, he liked being alone. It was something he had treasured once in his boyhood, and had lost, like childish dreams of being a hero, or even more childish dreams of wanting one's mother.

Methos had let go of all of his boyhood dreams not because he had decided that they were worth nothing, but because he had been forced to forget them, as many children had in the ancient past, when confronted with the sword and early blood.

Where had it gone, this innocence? Was it even innocence? Methos wasn't sure. He knew that innocence could never be regained once it was shorn, like a newborn's first haircut. Locks cut from a child for the first time changed everything.

He wandered out into the tall grass, chasing rabbits and field foxes, thinking to himself that it was a merry romp, and continued to hunt with the neighbor's bull mastiff, Scout, all afternoon, looking for edible dandelions and other such trivial things until Mac called him to dinner.

Books were there still, and there were journals to be written, the latest album brought fresh from the city to dance to. There were cool evenings on the verand swing, striking up conversations with the estate's live-in hostess, a massive tabby named Esmerelda. There were still nights of a little drink -not too much- and a little fire, for the house was cold and dank. Then at the first crack of dawn he was out the door, apple in his hand, or perhaps a hunk of fresh cheese, journal in his pocket, looking for leaves and daises to press and send to Amanda, or even a few sketches of birds or badgers to jam into a growing stack of papers he was neglecting. There was a little brook to explore, picking out toads and crayfish. There were butterflies to snatch and examine without disturbing the dust of their fragile wings. And most of all, long walks that led nowhere are all, eventually winding back to the house and its open doors that let in the flies and  
drove Mac nuts.

Mac was one of the last things on Methos's mind.

 

 **TWO MONTHS LATER:**

He had to escape. This weekend they were besieged by guests. First Joe, who Methos didn't really mind, had rolled in, but he had brought Richie, and that was okay too. Duncan had hinted that Amanda would soon follow. When the Valincourts had pulled into the drive six hours ago, Methos was sure that needed to camp out in the unused wine cellar for a few days.

It was too soon, too soon to see them all. It was too soon to have them trampling the vineyards in the early mornings, swinging from the apple trees in the afternoon. It was too soon for them to cross his path on the way to the barnyard from the servant's house. It was too soon to hear them carousing in the last delicious remnants of the night, when all that should be heard was the dulcet quiet of the summer in which animals slumbered and foxes hunted for mice out in the fields.

Methos clutched his book to his chest, thinking that it was all over. He would never get it back. They would never understand, none of them. He backed away from the dining room, from them all, and they barely noticed.

Why this boyish childishness? Methos tried to analyze the situation as he watched Mac pour Gina another glass of wine, and Richie hollered something over the table at Joe. His sense of practicality failed, and it was for the first time in years that he was astonished to find that his throat hurt, and Gina was decidedly blurry. Everyone was decidedly blurry.

He was crying!

 _Go up,_ he told himself, wiping his face with the backs of his hands, heading up the spiraling staircase and into the upper depths of the house itself, away from the rousing game of drunken Trivial Pursuit that was ensuing downstairs. He heard Richie call something out to him but didn't bother to respond. Where to go? Up.

Methos creeped up until he came to a little door. He tried the handle experimentally. No one had been up this far all summer. It was an attic storage area, nothing much to see, really, he remembered the lady saying to them the first day they had arrived and she had given them the 'grand tour' while he had moped.

Methos swung open the door just far enough to slip in side, and shut it soundlessly behind him. He pulled out the little flashlight he had brought with him and turned it on, shining it into the bowels of the room.

There were paintings in the corners, edged up against the walls and covered with cloths. There were piles of old books, and trunks that probably held things like moldering draperies from the forties. Methos felt a sneeze coming on, and held his breath. There was a small noise of mice scampering across the floor in hopes to escape the sweep of his light.

"Adam!" came a noise from downstairs. "Adam are you up here?" Mac and Gina were looking for him. He heard their heavy steps on the wood outside. He glanced about for a place to hide, choosing to disappear than force a confrontation.

In the far corner of the room, the flashlight found a tall standing independent wardrobe. Methos considered it for a second, and then flung open one door, examining the bottom of the insides to see if it was filthy, and if it would hold his weight.

The inside was immaculate. A few old fur coats hung on the far side, and the bottom was home to several small pads of sheepskin. He tested the weight of himself by stepping in with one foot. At worst, it would crack a little, and no one would really notice.

The floor of the wardrobe held his weight. He tried both feet, grasping the sides of the wardrobe and applying his weight carefully. No change. The voices were drawing nearer, and after one last wild glance towards the direction of the door, Methos sat down inside the wardrobe, drawing his legs up into the raised surface and shutting the doors with his fingertips.

Once the door was completely shut, the wardrobe was quiet inside. The walls of the standing chifferobe masked all noise, and he leaned against the solid wall behind him. No one would imagine that he was in here, hiding away from a small collection of people whom he supposed were his friends. Methos didn't even have the presence of mind to chuckle at himself. He laid his journal down on the floor of the wardrobe under his knees and exhaled, digging his hands into the lambskin without caution.

He encountered something hard and stiff. Pulling it out was easy, but in the complete darkness of the wardrobe, his fingers were a little perplexed with its shape. Curved and bent, it widened from one end to the other. Attached to it was a sort of cord, tied to both ends. Methos turned on the flashlight again to inspect what he was starting to think was a powder horn.

It was a horn. Not for gunpowder, but for hunting. Its curved body was made of ivory. It was probably worth a fortune. The rope attached to the ends was a means of conveyance. Methos was no stranger to this kind of horn; it was probably one of the oldest instruments in the world. This one, gilded on the bands that held the silken cord tight to it, was small and perfect, a royal hunting horn, indeed, or perhaps something constructed in the wilds of India for some old British Lord. How the hell had it ended up here?

Methos examined the crest on the side, that of a rearing lion, and old scrolling script that was all but unintelligible. Barely.

He brought it to his lips, thinking to try it out, when he remembered where he was and how he had gotten there in the first place. Methos froze to listen for voices coming from the room. Nothing. He pushed the door of the wardrobe, and it cracked open enough for him to be able to hear anyone still calling for him. There were no more footsteps and voices. Mac and Gina must have returned to their games downstairs with the rest of their visitors.

All alone then, Methos brought the horn up to his lips once again, and, sucking in a little breath, blew lightly into the mouth end, not enough for a full blast, but enough to hear its tone.

The sound that came out of the horn was truly loud. In fact, it was too loud for the air that he had blown in. Methos jolted in the small compartment and dropped the horn in his lap like it was on fire. The noise reverberated through the wardrobe when it should have been dampened by the wood, and he tucked the horn back under the sheepskin where it had come from.

Then he leaned back and contemplated the strangeness of his own situation. _You aren't in here because you're suddenly afraid of people,_ he told himself. _It has to do with something about this whole 'being alone' business, doesn't it? What is it that drives you to playing with musical instruments inside a piece of furniture?_

Methos had no answer. He was hoping that sleep would have a suggestion.

***

There was a fresh breeze of what smelled suspiciously like lavender, and a little bit of honeysuckle. Methos opened his eyes and blinked in the light.

 _What light?_ he told himself. _You were in the wardrobe. Unless you've taken to sleepwalking in your old age._

He was in the middle of some forested area. Not too much forest, for the area upon which he stood was exposed to the sun. But off into the woods, he could see dappled patches of sunlight peeking through the full verdant trees. There was the smell of nearby water, a brook or a stream.

Methos knew he was no longer on the property of the estate he and Mac had rented; he knew every inch of that land. He cast strange looks to the sky, which was a lovely shade of blue, and the grass that grew wild and tall about his feet.

Methos made his way towards the source of the water, listening for the sound of the lap of it on rocks, knowing that if he followed the stream, he might very well run into not only someone, but perhaps a homestead and a way of getting home.

Home. He hadn't called anything that for a while. Why did he refer to the villa as that?

He was about to ponder once again his love of the countryside, and his sudden need to be away from people and all their trappings, when he was suddenly shot through with the idea that _something_ was out there, and that it wasn't human. Nothing new, really, seeing as how he was in the middle of the woods; there had to be hundreds of thousands of living critters everywhere, right?

He scanned the banks of the brook, trying to see perhaps a watchful but cautions deer or some other creature that might have possibly made him stop for the sensation.

He was decidedly not prepared for the lion his eyes met down towards the bank, lounging in the soft grass and watching him intently, patiently.

It made no noise, and made no move, so he was spared a few seconds of observation before panic attempted to grip him. The things was large, as lions are apt to be, with a full tan mane, and a golden muzzle that matched its paws in complete definition and hue. Only the eyes seemed odd, cool and crisp, waiting.

 _Lions are not good things,_ he thought to himself. _You do remember what they used to do to men in Africa, don't you?_

Methos backed away from the creature, which merely cocked its head at him, as if he were contemplating something much deeper than the way his face would taste crunching in its mouth.

 _Come here, son of Adam,_ Methos heard. He looked around for a voice, for someone else, which was foolish, he knew inside, because the voice had come from the lion.

 _Lions don't talk,_ he told himself. He continued his back away technique, thinking that now would have been a good time to have his sword. He had slain more than several lions with his Ivanhoe, as it had been necessary at times.

The lion seemed to find this sad. _We all must do what we must._ And with a small batting paw motion: _You have done many things as you have seen you must, Adam. For you are not a son of Adam, are you?_ The lion yawned. _No, you are of another's conception, though not of  
a different maker._

"No one made me," Methos said stubbornly. "And it's not Adam." He was suddenly filled with the urge to continue on as his own self, refusing to admit to this creature that was and was not the thing he was seeing. He wasn't going to explain himself to a lion. That was for children.

 _If no one made you, then how are you here?_ the lion asked sagely.

Methos faltered for a second. Indeed, he _had_ been elsewhere, if he remembered correctly. He frowned and sat down on a rock. Apparently this lion was less than interested in his 'crunchy on the outside, chewy in the inside' makeup.

"I was asleep, and then I was here," he gestured to the brook, the grass, the trees above him. "There was no sun where I was. I wonder just what time it is."

 _It is all times and none,_ the lion told him, sphinx-like from head right down to its perfect paws that aligned themselves as surely as the creature must have read his mind. _For here, you are in no time, though it does pass here._

"And where is here?" Methos sighed. It was getting easier and easier to realize that this creature was not normal. Though it could still eat him, he figured.

 _You could be anywhere, though you are in the place of my fondest choosing,_ the lion told him. _You are in Narnia._

Methos chuckled. The admission meant nothing to him, though he was fairly sure that he was familiar with every location on the globe, past and present.

The lion did not take to his laughter. It moved quickly, faster than he would have thought, until it knocked him over, and Methos rolled off the boulder and down the narrowing slope, stopping short of the water by accidentally hitting his shoulder on a jutting rock. Pain seared through his chest, and Methos felt the hot breath of death as the lion leaned over him, its smiling jaw lolling open in amusement.

 _You may stop worrying for your safety, Son of Adam. You are not halfway up to my taste._ The lion rubbed his face a little with its chin, and Methos smelled the deep forest and the sandy depths of the desert. _You came, blowing the horn of Great Queen Susan, who once ruled these lands, long long ago,_ it told him. _Whoever blows that horn, summons some kind of help, it has been said._

Methos flashed back to the horn, remembered its sound in the little wardrobe and the way he had wondered of its origin. The lion seemed to understand this, but said nothing.

"Yes, but where are you from? How do you know me?" he demanded, trying to roll over to a tolerable and dignified position.

 _I encompass all things. You know this,_ the lion told him, blinking once, twice, and then settling down on the grass, lolling like a cat and reaching out with one massive paw to drag him close. _Not just here, but in that place where you abide._

It was in that moment that suddenly Methos _knew_ , he knew as he had known what to do the first time he had taken a head: that the lightning would come, and that this sensation would be the first of many times. Many times in five thousand, in fact.

The lion was not all of its image, and yet so completely what it was. Like Methos, it was more than the sum of its vision, yet so very much more than Methos would ever be. He yearned for that knowledge of self this creature possessed.

Methos rolled over into the grasp of the paw, burying his face in that tawny mane, thinking that there was nothing at all that this creature would do to him, no matter what he had done.

 _All that you have been done has been of you own doing,_ the lion purred, _and you are the one who lives to see their resolution. But these things cannot be undone by themselves. You must first admit that you cannot solve all things with your own judgement._

There. It had been said. Methos frowned, feeling the tears well up again a little at the thought. "I cannot undo the things I am guilty for," he began feebly. "Some of them are so old, I struggle to even conceive of them in this time. All those who witnessed my most terrible deeds are long dead."

The-creature-that-was-and-was-not-a-lion said nothing. Methos knew he was making excuses. The creature knew it. It pushed him away with one paw, a rejection of sorts. Methos felt a little stab of its claws in his chest with that thrust.

 _There are no excuses, and it would do you well to remember that._ The bitter tint of the words seared his mind as he heard them. The last thing he wanted to do was offend this creature, not only because it could kill him, but also because he merely _didn't want to._

"All right," he capitulated, drying the tears on his sleeve and sitting up. "I am very sorry for the things I have done in the past. That's not a secret. I would undo some of them if I could, but not all of them, I suppose. I cannot do any more than that."

This seemed to satisfy the lion. _When the time comes, you will do more than that,_ it told him, blinking once before it resumed his heavy gaze.

"And I have become so much less than I thought I was," Methos went on, seeming cryptic even to himself. "There is something that I'm missing, something hidden to me."

 _All you profess to be hidden is inside,_ the lion yawned. _You will find it, for it was given only to you when you were born, long ago._

Did this creature know him so that he was aware of his age? Methos stammered for words. "I cannot remain alone forever, no matter how much I like it," he started. "But the land has done something to me--"

He stopped. The lion was gone. He searched for it, rising wildly and spinning, trying to see through the trees. How could he leave him like this? How could He do it? How did he even know it was a he? _Lions like that, they are males,_ his scientific part said. _But when was the last time you sat down with one and lolled on a riverbank?_

Methos had to face the facts. He had been deserted on the side of the brook by a talking lion, one that had known his name. And now he was stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing, not even his journal. Just himself, just...

Himself.

And then he heard it, that roaring noise, and the lion was behind him. He spun, covering his ears, wondering if this was the time that he was to be eaten.

The lion had grown in size. Maybe it had been Methos's own imagination. Perhaps things in Narnia were different, and creatures all talked and changed sizes on a regular basis. Or perhaps this wasn't a lion.

 _I have defied the old magics and been reborn, youngling._

Methos felt his bones grow old.

 _I have created countless worlds, and watched the stars fall from the heavens to rest at the end of the sea for eons before rising again to the sky, new as just born babes._

Methos couldn't hold his muscles stiff anymore. One of his hands began to shake.

 _I have ripped the scales from a little boy to remake the flesh underneath and wash away the sins of the past._ Methos sank down into the grass and tried to look away from the growing light that surrounded this creature.

 _I am Aslan. I have many names, and many faces. I know you, Methos._ Aslan the Lion padded towards his paralyzed form. _Now let us see what we can do with you, Son of Adam._

Methos felt a light feeling in his stomach, as if he were being tickled. The he knew that one of those massive paws was ripping into his flesh, and it didn't matter. All he saw were the spheres of mystery in the eyes of this creature he had known through many times and places.

***

Duncan stretched in the morning sun and wandered out into the garden to drink his coffee. Their guests would probably sleep until noon, but he had always been an early riser. He had brewed the coffee, wondering where Methos had gone the night before, and slipped on a robe to go out into the sunshine for a little walk by himself.

This place did encourage serendipity, or even the tranquility of mind he had once gotten at monasteries. Methos had taken to it; he had made himself a fixture in the grass and the cobbled stone walls that separated them from everyone else. Duncan often saw him only at supper. The rest of his time he had made himself scarce, riding on their rented horse, or hanging high up in the branches of one of the orchard trees, doing nothing at all.

This particular morning, however, Methos was sitting cross-legged in the tall grass, watching the merry play of several of the field bunnies. Duncan approached warily. When Methos did notice him it was only in slight, and then he offered him a little space on the large flat rock that was his current throne.

Mac plopped down next to him and sighed. Methos worked a long blade of grass between his thumbs, brought it to his mouth and blew. There was a shrill noise, and the rabbits scattered.

"I see you are feeling well," Mac ventured, combing a hand through his damp hair. "I had worried for you last night when you didn't come down to trounce us all at trivia."

Methos smiled, nodding his head and twisting the grass between two fingers. "I was not feeling social," he said brightly, looking out after the rabbits who had resumed their play a good distance further from the noise as before. "It wasn't them. It was the sudden urge to feel isolated."

"Ahhh," Mac replied, not feeling that he ad understood at all. Methos stood, and Mac watched him stretch in the sun. He was wearing a pair of faded dungarees, and a T-shirt that had seen better days. His feet were bare. He'd been climbing trees again. When Methos started to walk away, Mac wondered if it was a good idea to go in and make breakfast. Then his friend turned and started talking as if Duncan had been right behind him. The Highlander leapt at the cue and  
scrambled to catch up.

"I was thinking last night, as I slept, that I was not so very lonely as I used to be. Not because you were there, although you are indeed a good friend," Methos said solemnly as they entered the orchard. Mac felt the prickly grass under his feet and sipped from his mug. Methos reached up and plucked an apple from its stem-harbour on the branch. Then he shined it on his shirtfront and handed it to Mac.

"And then, you know, there are lots of things I was once lonely about. I thought of those too," he said distractedly, carefully examining a tree head to toe, then reaching up and hanging from a large branch. He tested its weight with both hands, then swung back and forth, and up.

"You thought while you were asleep," Mac stated. This was a refreshing Methos. Almost boyish in nature, down to the cowlick that protruded from the back of his head.

"Yes," came the reply. Methos was quickly disappearing from view, up into the leaves. Mac tried to squint into the sun. "Well, I think about lots of things." There was a pause, where Mac thought to say something, and then, "I am not quite sure if I was asleep, really. There are many things that happen to one when they're asleep." There, Mac saw him, staring down at him, his lip protruding from his face a little, a half-pout, half lost in thought. The leaves served to frame  
his face.

Then Methos shrugged and turned back to whatever he was doing. "It doesn't matter. The point is that I am not lonely anymore. Perhaps I should sleep in wardrobes more often."

Mac smiled into his mug. "Is that where you were? Up in the attic?" When an apple fell down at his feet, he picked it up and took that as an affirmative. "Interesting. It must be left over from the Professor."

There was a rustle of leaves over his head; the tree shook violently, and then Methos hung upside down by his knees in front of him.

"Professor?"

"Yes," Mac answered, amused. Methos's face was reddening from hanging upside down. His shirt fell into his face. "Professor Kirke owned this house last. He died some time in the fifties, I suppose. The house has had people in and out of it ever since. I do believe it was almost destroyed, but something stopped it." He sipped his coffee.

"Perhaps it was divine intervention." Methos snorted at him and swung back up into the tree. "What was in the wardrobe that made such a wonderful bed? Old fur coats?"

Methos scoffed. "Hardly. Old lambskin that has seen better days, I suppose. Something furry. I remembered it all so well just a few minutes a go, and now it's so hard to remember." His face peeked out from the tree. "What were we talking about?"

Mac shook his head. "You were telling me about your dream-thoughts last night, as you slept in a musty old wardrobe instead of the large bedroom you confiscated from me when we got here."

Another apple fell at his feet. He was going to need a bushel if Methos was going to pick any more. Perhaps they could make pie...

"Well, I just decided that I'm not lonely anymore, and that I rather like being by myself." There was another pause, then another apple. _Thunk._ "I had thought that being by oneself was a very lonely business. Confronting old sins of the past in the dead, dark hours after midnight and all." _Thunk._ "Well, it _isn't_ so bad after all. In fact, I rather _like_ myself. Now, that is." _Thunk._

Mac smiled at the mug, then up at the tree. "Well that is a good thing, Methos." Three more apples fell from the tree: _thunk...thunkthunk._

Methos jumped down from a lower branch, and began retrieving the apples from the ground. He used his already filthy shirt as a makeshift carrier. They started back to the house together. Mac thought that perhaps they would make bacon, then some fried apples and brown sugar, and surprise their morning guests.

He stopped to glance at Methos. The eyes were a little rounder, they face a little softer than when they had first come here. There was a dark smudge across one cheek, and that hair ruffled in all directions from the breeze. Something different. Something old. Something new.

The eyes were so young.

Methos was silent for a long while, his face curious, unguarded from the sun, and the early squalling of the robins out in the orchard. "You know, I think I'd like to be called Adam."

***

 _It was the unicorn who summed up what everyone was feeling. He stamped his right fore-hoof on the ground and neighed and then cried: "I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this. Bree-hee-hee! Come further up, come further in!"_

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Opening quote from The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe
> 
> Closing quote from The Last Battle


End file.
